Trevelyan: Ward of England
by Iolana Khenemet
Summary: (Pre-Goldeneye) COMPLETE This fanfic tries to find out how a Cossack child, later known as Alec Trevelyan (006; Janus), came to grow up in Great Britain. Set shortly after the tragedy at Lienz.
1. Chapter 1

**Trevelyan: Ward of England**

by Iolana Khenemet

inspired by the movie Goldeneye

  
Copyright: 2003/2004   
Warnings: Description of corpses   
Summary: Somehow the Cossack child, Alec Trevelyan, had to come to England. This story tries to tell how.   
Feedback: yes, please; critical comments highly welcome, mistakes, good lines, anything goes   
A/N: The character names are fictional not historical.   
Disclaimer: James Bond is the creation of Ian Fleming. The character of Alec Trevelyan in the story is the property of Ian Fleming and the filming companies that produce Bond Films (United Artists, MGM, Eon). No copyright infringement intended. No profit is gained by this work.

* * *

_Why, why o evil people   
Have you separated our hearts?   
Now I am an embittered orphan...   
  
Russian folksong  
  
_

Summer 1945, Austria, middle or end of June

The ache had changed to constant pain. He was so hungry. A grasshopper attracted his attention. His little hand shot forward and caught the chirping animal with a movement practised in innumerable games. Yesterday he had still wondered whether they were edible. Today, he no longer cared. His teeth bit on the fidgeting insect, and he spit it out. Still moving weakly, it lay at his feet. He looked away. Another katydid leaped past. The sickness disappeared and his stomach rumbled, hurt. He grabbed the animal, plugged it into his mouth and crushed it. Hastily he swallowed it down before he could feel nauseous again. If one did not look at it or pay attention to the writhing, one was able to think it was chicken. Further grasshoppers went down into his belly and softened the pain.

The boy fiddled with the metal cup that dangled at his belt. He had to get rid of the taste. The kettle was already empty and no rain interrupted the summer heat. Nevertheless he knew where one could still find water. He slipped through the gloomy undergrowth, which surrounded the clearing. Repeated trips had broken a way trough into the thicket. In the next glade, he filled the little cup with water out of a puddle in the deeply torn soil. The water in there was decreasing steadily. There was a river nearby, but mother had said it would be too dangerous. He must not go there alone. Therefore he drank the yellowish water.

A clayey taste remained in his mouth as he crept back again and leaned against the bark of a fir. His teeth chattered and he lay down in the sun warmed grass. He couldn't constantly disturb mother. She needed her sleep. So did father. The firs seemed to stretch out further up into the sky, whenever he looked up. Sometimes they spoke to him. From time to time, he saw black spots, once many, once fewer. Despite the warmth he shivered. Certainly he would not wake mother if he lay down next to her. Sighing, he sat up slowly and noted the rusty dirt under his fingernails. Had mother not scolded him again and again, that it would be improper? Water was too precious, therefore he cleaned them coarsely without. His hands had to remain like they were. They would become dirty again anyway. Mother would understand. He crossed the small meadow, passed the little fir, evaded bramble branches and slipped around the lilac shrubs, behind which his parents hid themselves from evil people. The boy smiled relieved. Like always father kept guard with his pistol, unmoving as not to be spotted. Mother had said he should not disturb father, therefore he went past him. His mother slept some steps away. Treading softly, he went to her and cuddled up against her motionless body. She was cold, colder than he was. Well, they would freeze together, then. He peered through his eyelashes into her face. Good, she had not woken up. The boy pulled the dirt encrusted horse blanket over himself, put his head on her left breast and his thumb into his mouth. The hammering of a woodpecker mocked a fake heartbeat, lulling him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Milk-white maggots bored their way through the living beech wood like worms through black soil. The sight threatened to turn his stomach again. Since waking up, he had felt hot, cold and nauseous, worse than yesterday. Nevertheless the boy reached out to grab one of the creeping things. In mid-motion, he paused, listening. The sound was gone. Had he imagined it? No…there it was again. Horses. The piece of bark he had stripped off slipped from his hand. No one must see him. His foot slipped when he stepped backwards and he fell down. With his heart pounding, he crept through the grass. He had to warn father and mother! Father was armed and together they would be safe.

-----

Michael Flat tossed and turned on his camp bed. His body was covered with sweat and the blanket stuck to his skin. Finally he abandoned any thoughts of sleep. He got up, put on his Red Cross uniform and stepped out of the tent into the oppressively warm summer night. A breeze surrounded him, but ceased immediately and brought no cooling at all. He gazed over the tent camp set up yesterday. The moon light sufficed to make out details. He looked up, past the gloomy fir trees. Full moon. Shreds of cloud scudded like black horsemen over the sky. In the distant, he heard trees groan in the wind. Down here in the valleys, one did not feel much of the up-coming summer thunderstorm. Over at the well concealed camp fire, Lieutenant McCalman kept watch. A few other soldiers sat there as well, no doubt as sleepless as he was. Michael Flat found his way to the group without problems and joined them, sitting down between Spinster and Connely. Moments later another figure approached, which turned out to be Captain Wilbert Morgan, the leader of the company.

McCalman looked up and greeted him with a nod and a crisp "Captain," when Morgan halted next to him.

"Lieutenant. Is everything quiet?"

"Couldn't be more quiet, Sir."

"Good. Carry on, McCalman."

A gust of wind grasped the tree tops, however did not reach the ground. Leaves rustled. The horses neighed. Animals sensed weather variations more precisely than human beings. Silence suffocated any sound at the tent camp again. Michael was restless, but it was not due to the silent men beside him. The last weeks had welded them together. He had been accepted as a valuable member of the troop, although their missions differed greatly and their arguments kept them from becoming close friends…

A log cracked in the fire. McCalman tilted his head and listened into the night. Inquiringly, Michael Flat looked at the Lieutenant, who now shook his head. Michael listened as well. Nothing. Only the call of a screech-owl broke the silence. Still his unease grew. He had felt watched since yesterday, but nobody had been seen or found.


	3. chapter 3

Michael Flat had smoked a cigarette after his visit to the latrines before returning now. Surprised he heard loud voices from the fire site. A dispute? He hated senseless arguments and hoped this was not. With compressed lips he hurried over. Soon he heard sentence shreds.

"…Usually aren't superstitious…Sure…didn't drink…?"

"If I say it was there, then it was!" He recognised Connely's voice.

"Nosferatu...," called someone. "How far away are the Carpathian Mountains?"

The giggle changed to laughter just as Flat joined them

"Perhaps it was a poltergeist." Spinster laughed.

"Oh, I'm so afraid," one of the men said, imitating a woman's voice and batting his eyelashes. The round broke out in laughter again.

"Shut up!" commanded someone from the edge of the fire's light circle. Unnoticed, the Captain had approached.

The laugher ceased.

"What's going on here? One hears you miles away. Need I remind you of the security risk lack of discipline poses? Who knows what combatants are still in the area! Report!" he ordered McCalman, the highest ranking man present.

"Sir, Connely saw a shape over at the steep cliff when he looked around there." McCalman hesitated. "He said it was small, pale, bloody and vanished into thin air."

Connely flushed under Morgan's scrutiny.

"Spinster, Connely, McCalman, come along. We'll have a look."

The men exchanged uncomfortable glances. Spinster licked his lips and said, "Perhaps someone else should come along, Sir." After another sideways glance to Morgan he added, "Never mind."

"I'll come along in case someone gets injured," Flat offered quietly.

Morgan looked at him, then at the relieved men and nodded. "Sometimes a medic is close to a priest. Hand him a torch." Then he eyed the others around the fire. "If I hear loud sounds again, you'll all polish your boots with toothbrushes. Connely, take the lead."

"Aye, Sir." Connely replied, not enthusiastic to leave the fire, which promised safe refuge. With a last glance to the fire he took off into the darkness.

Cautiously they approached the place that had so frightened Connely. Their torches flashed into the night, over trunks and roots. Morgan kneeled down. "I'd say your appearance was alive. And no, whatever it was didn't disappear, it ran away. "

The strong light beam illuminated dented grass and aside pushed brushwood to the forest ground where the traces lost themselves.

He rose. "It might have been a deer or something. As soon as it's bright we'll send a search party."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 5**

"I tell you, we're chasing after Connely's phantom.  As if the area hadn't been searched before.  After all, we've done nothing else for a month than seeking Russians," Spinster muttered.

Nobody seemed to listen, though, as they inspected another glade, the fifth since the search party had set out this morning. 

Michael Flat looked around.  The glade was idyllic, but deserted. One could nearly forget a war had been led - one that had cost millions of lives – had there not been the little bomb funnel.

"Sir, over here are a couple of traces," a soldier informed Morgan.  Flat followed the Captain and squatted down next to him.

The soldier pointed at the impressions at a clay puddle.  "It probably serves as a water hole."

The clay broth could hardly be declared drinkable.  The summer thunderstorm had rained down elsewhere, and what was in the pit could rather be considered damp clay than clayey water by now. 

Morgan frowned.

"Sir?"

"An influx of the River Drau is not even one hundred fifty yards away.  Why use this as a water source, if a river is nearby?"

The soldier hesitated.  "There're only a few traces and the run in the bush is very narrow. And not very high."

Morgan nodded. "Strange," he said in a tight voice, his expression revealing nothing.

Sharply Michael Flat glanced at him, before he looked skywards. The sun stood so high that shadows were reduced to dark spots.  Crows sat in tree tops and rock columns or flew, disturbed in their noon rest, over the blue sky.  Two of them sailed over the glade into the same direction the slip through led. 

The Captain beckoned everyone over.  "Someone has been here in the last days. Our position?"

"Slightly south of our camp. Whatever Connely-."  A giggle interrupted the soldier. "Whatever Connely had observed must be between us and our campsite. The slip through is too narrow, Sir, we'd make awfully much noise, but over there a narrow path leads along the rocks.  Approximately last used a week ago, I'd say."

Morgan pinched his eyes together.  "Can we be spotted sideways?"

"Negative. Only from ahead and behind, but we have to go sequentially."

Morgan nodded.  "Increased watchfulness; have your weapons ready.  We don't know what to expect."

Led by Morgan, the troop made its way along the partly overgrown mountain path.  Moments later a flat piece of meadow stretched out in front of them. To the left the rock continued; to the right a man high elevation flanked by a tree row concealed what lay behind.

Connelly gave the sign that the flat meadow was clear.  He waved them over to a spot where the steep elevation could be climbed.  Morgan sent two men up.  Robbing through the grass, they disappeared from sight. 

A bit later they returned.  „No one's in sight. There're some lilac shrubs and bushes to the left and predominantly meadow to the right.  If someone hides here, than left, Sir."

Morgan nodded.  "Ten men with me to search the bushes. The remaining eight to the right - check the forest edge and cover us. Mr. Flat, stick to McCalman and me."

Blackberries and undergrowth made a direct approach impossible.  The men spread out but kept in eye-sight, to notify each other with hand signs if necessary.

They came to a little fir hardly large enough to claim Michael's size. 

Morgan signalled, "Caution now".

Someone touched Michael Flat's sleeve. Lt. McCalman, who pointed forward to show him the reason for the order.  Bend tendrils and leaves ripped from branches marked a small trail. Michael was glad for McCalman's help – as a Red Cross member, he was the odd one out, untrained for military operations, although a fast learner.

Apart from that there was no trace of human beings in the area. Michael Flat cursed mentally as they crossed a barrier formed by more bramble berries. The thorns of the undergrowth hooked in his uniform and tore little holes, every now and than scratching the skin as well. And they were stirring up more than a few mosquitoes that reattacked with a vengeance.

The Lieutenant pointed at more traces which had obviously been noticed by the Captain.  They led ahead to the blooming shrubs.  Michael Flat nodded.  A feeling of dread washed over him from the view though he was not able to say why. 

They crept on, their hands at their weapons. Right now Mr. Flat would have welcomed possessing one. The white lilac poisoned the air with its sticky sweet fragrance.  But underneath was something different perceptible, something rotten, a smell that increased with every step he took. Spinster and Connely had pulled their guns.  The innocent summer wind blew a wave of stench over the group of soldiers invading the quiet bushed. 

Abruptly, they all stopped. There lay something - the body of a man, facing towards them and with a gun in the hand.    

The man was without a doubt no danger.  And this man's life was lost to help, that much was clear as well. Bugs crawled over his face, especially the eyes. Decay had already set in. The stench had its origin here.

Michael Flat sighed. He was sick of seeing death where he wanted to preserve life. He pressed one sleeve over his nose and carefully stepped closer. Behind him he heard one of the soldiers choke.  He tasted bile himself.  The corpse showed a shot hole, or rather a wound that could only have been obtained from a close-range shot. From the way the hand held the pistol, Michael guessed the stranger had done it himself, approximately a week ago, maybe less.

There was something else, a couple of steps away, half hidden from view by a dense lilac shrub. The man's corpse blocked the way.  Michael Flat knew the Captain was not irreverent but pragmatic as he stepped over the corpse. He followed suit.

If in any way possible, the stench increased.  The shrub released the sight of a female corpse in the same stage of decay, lying under one of the shrubs.  One crow, disturbed in its meal, hoped to the side and flew away, croaking.  The woman was covered with insects as well.  The quantity of encrusted blood on her skin, clothing and blanket over her was by far larger.  She, too, had been shot. 

Michael Flat's eyes narrowed, as he realised that the Captain, and not only he, had tensed up. He peered around Spinster to get a better view.

After a clueless moment, he saw it as well. The cover moved, only slightly, but nonetheless it moved.  More animals?

Spinster aimed his gun.  Morgan put a restraining hand on his arm, and Spinster lowered it, still ready to bring it up the second it was necessary.

Morgan stepped forward. He pulled the cover, stiff with dirt, aside. With a strangled half-curse he took a step back.

A wave of rotten air rose up, freed from its narrow confinement, strangling the men nearby. Spinster retched, and more than one retreated slightly. It took Michael Flat a moment until he had taken in the whole sight. He blinked, bile rising up in his throat again. He had seen and had experienced terrible things during this war.  Nevertheless he was not prepared for what he saw now. 

A child was cuddling to the corpse.  Its head rested on the woman's left breast side, the one the heart was.  The cover had moved with its breaths and slight movements. Amidst the corpses, the child had survived. 

He rushed forward, every instinct trained on helping. Morgan's hand shot out and held him back. Angrily he stared at the Captain, his gaze met by calm, sad eyes.

Morgan pointed out two men. "Check if the rest of the area is clear."

Everything in him urged him to do something, to help and to do it fast. From here, Michael Flat was not able to say whether the child had open wounds. He could only guess what illnesses it might have; fever was a certain.

Half turning around, Morgan said, "Look for something to identify them, than see that they are buried. Do it right here. The child…"

"Sir, may I?" Connely volunteered.

Captain Morgan said, "Go ahead." Turning to Michael Flat he added, "You'll need your hands free to check on it anyway."

Connely approached the child, while Michael opened his medical first aid kit and waited to get close to his patient.

A/N: The River mentioned (Drau) passes the town of Lienz, Austria. It may be that it is called Drave in English; if someone knows for sure, drop me a note.


	5. chapter 5

He was cold, so cold. Where was his blanket? In his doze, he fumbled for it. It was not there. The boy lifted his heavy eyelids. He saw a dark shape, blurring in and out of focus. The boy squinted. Something - no someone - moved towards him. Frightened, he tried to move away, to hide. But his arms and legs felt so heavy...For a moment everything spun, making him feel sicker than he already was. He closed his eyes again.  
  
Someone spoke in a soft voice. Father. Strong hands seized him and lifted him up. He was safe. The boy smiled and wound his thin arms around father's neck and relaxed against the warm body, content to be held. Father had not done that for such a long time. Then his father said something, and he frowned. What did he say? He tried to concentrate but the words made no sense. Why couldn't he understand him?  
  
That was not his father!   
  
The child opened his eyelids and stared into an unfamiliar face. He screamed for his father. No one answered. The man took him away, away from his parents! Why didn't father stop him? He twisted, trying to get away. Still crying for his parents, he kicked and pounded his small fists on the stranger's body. The evil man did not even react.

"Njet! Njet, Mother?" Where was she? Why did she not come? He bit hard into the hand restraining him.  
  
The stranger screamed and cursed but only tightened his grip.   
  
Exhausted, cold and miserable, the boy stopped struggling. Before his eyes, everything spun. The sky turned as green as the meadow. Everything was green. The wind whispered an up and down swelling melody full of sadness, getting louder and louder until all the boy heard was a roaring in his ears. Frightened, the boy called out for his parents one last time. But they did not come, did not answer him. Why weren't they protecting him?  
  
His surroundings turned darker and out of focus until blackness claimed him.


	6. Chapter6

The troops had found a short cut back to the camp, and Michael was glad about it. Though he had a first aid box, he did not have the means to do what was needed out here, and the dirt on the child's body obscured any possible injuries. Anxiously Michael pressed on but he did not need to urge Sergeant McCalman to go faster.

Pale-faced, wide-eyed and sweating profusely, the Sergeant hurried on, driven by demons known only to him.

"McCalman?" Michael asked concerned.

"The last time I carried a motionless child was at Lienz. I...I helped to lay them at rest in those mass graves we dug in a hurry. There were so many of them...Their bodies and their eyes –" He sobbed. "Please, Lord, don't make it another one!"

"He's still alive, and I'll make sure he stays that way. Just pay attention to where you are running!"

McCalman swallowed. "Sorry." He slowed and moved with more control.

When they reached the camp, McCalman's expression mirrored the relief Michael felt. Michael quickly led the way to the tent serving as their medical facility. "Put him down here," he ordered, and McCalman placed the limp form onto a blanket.

The Red Cross medical took a knife and handed one to McCalman as well. "Help me undress him." Together they removed the filthy clothing. The child did not stir.

Anxiously McCalman looked at the still face. "He's so quiet now. When I picked him up, he was rather lively. He even bit me." McCalman showed Michael Flat his hand.

Michael glanced at it while he stuffed the rags that had been the child's clothes into a small bag. The back of McCalman's hand was covered with a few rusty brown streaks. The bite had drawn blood. Michael pushed the bag into the Sergeant's hands. "Burn this. And disinfect your hands, especially your injured one." Frowning, Michael Flat looked at the Sergeant and gestured at his uniform. "And change your clothes."

The Sergeant glanced down. His uniform was covered with filth and worse - pieces from the corpses. McCalman swallowed and paled. "Take care of him," he said, leaving the tent to take care of the child's clothes and his own personal hygiene.

When Michael had finished washing the child and had checked him over, he found Captain Morgan standing in front of the tent.

"So how is he?"

Michael sighed and motioned him to enter. "Despite the obvious - fever and exhaustion - he also suffers from dehydration and malnutrition. He was without a proper food source for days, not to forget the general lack of food most refugees were and are faced with. Part of his condition is due to drinking seriously spoiled water. Actually, he should be in a hospital."

"Is he awake?"

"Now and then. You can sit down here if you'd like to, Sir."

As if on cue the boy stirred. His eye lids fluttered open, revealing glassy eyes. The boy mumbled something.

Michael strained his ears but did not understand him. The language was obviously Slavic, most probably Russian. The boy went back to sleep.

"Russian then." Morgan stood and left the tent. He stopped outside of the entrance and was joined by his second in command.

Though Michael's attention was focused on his patient, he still heard most of the conversation. He pressed his lips together when he heard Morgan's deputy ask, "Shall I inform the Russian authorities?"

Morgan's reply was a firm "No."

"But, Sir, our orders -"

"- Are to repatriate everyone who was a citizen of the Soviet Union in 1939. The boy is roughly about four to five years old – definitely born after 1939. Besides, nobody is going to miss a small child. His parents are dead, and chances are small that he has other living relatives."

There was a rather long silence. Then the deputy stammered, "But, Sir...it, well, at Lienz, I mean..." he broke off before blurting out, "nobody checked the nationality of the Cossacks at Lienz!"

"No, and I've the feeling history will not look kindly upon this fact."

The boy stirred and opened his eyes again. Quickly Michael grabbed a bottle of water to get as much fluid into him as long as he was conscious. The boy did not put up a struggle. It made Flat's task easier but he would have preferred a lively child, one that was more responsive to his surroundings.

"At least he would live in the country his ancestors came from..." the deputy continued.

"How do you think they would raise him? If anyone of the Cossacks had believed in a kind welcome in the Soviet Union, they would not have crossed the Alps in the middle of a snow storm in order to get to Lienz to evade capture by eastern troops. So, when we wanted to repatriate them, they refused, went on a hunger strike, offered slave labour to Great Britain and some even committed suicide to escape their fate. And the machine gun firing we heard at Judenburg was hardly a welcoming salute."

Michael gritted his teeth. No wonder no one wanted to talk about Lienz. No wonder the soldiers in this troop grew uncomfortable when he mentioned Lienz. No wonder Captain Morgan had always evaded his questions about what had happened there and why. Michael was furious although his hands stayed completely steady when he prepared several injections which would help to save the child.

"Sir, I don't see an alternative. We have to hand him over. He's ill. No matter where we give him to, sooner or later someone is going to hand him over to the Red Army anyway."

"The International Red Cross has already threatened to withdraw from Austria should the forced repatriations continue."

Michael blinked. His organization had done what? In a very controlled manner he placed the syringe away that he had used. Michael had had no contact with the Red Cross for about two weeks. How long had Morgan known of this threat? Damn, when had Morgan intended to inform _him_, the man who worked for the Red Cross?! Anger welled up inside of him and extinguished much of the respect he had felt for the Captain.

Obviously Morgan had wanted to avoid the subject. The cynical part of Michael understood that perfectly – the threat was not an idle one, and had he known, he would have had more than one argument about the troop's current orders.

A rustle from the entrance of the tent announced Morgan's return. "Mr. Flat, I'm sure you know someone whom you could contact and who flies home soon."

The inevitable argument would have to wait but Michael promised himself that Morgan would wish he had told him the facts. For now, Michael just turned towards him and regarded him with a cold smile. "Sure. What else did you think?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

- London, a few weeks later -

Michael Flat sat in the office of Elisabeth Greyden, who led this orphanage in North London and was one of his dearest friends. Now that the boy was no longer ill, he needed a permanent place to stay.

"You know you can always count on me," she said, looking over her pair of glasses.

"I don't know what the authorities might do if they were to find out he's Russian - I mean Cossack. You could get into trouble."

She shook her head. "Then no one will find it out. I work for the well-being of these children and not for some rules on dead paper. Are you sure he's Cossack?"

Michael nodded. "Some things among his parents' possessions were of Cossack making."

"What happened to their belongings? Were they kept? He'll want to have them when he's old enough."

Michael shook his head. "His parents had been dead for days when we found him. We buried them with everything they possessed, which was not much. It's probably better if he never finds out about his ancestry anyway. If we – and what's more important, he – are lucky, then he's still young enough to forget. Lienz, or more precisely the Peggetz, isn't something someone would want to remember. And let's not forget that he witnessed his parents' deaths."

"Like so many children here did. How did they die?"

Flat reached into his wallet and retrieved a few pictures. "One of the soldiers took photographs throughout the war whenever the opportunity arose." He handed her two of them, one taken when they had found the boy, the other taken slightly later. "We think the father shot his wife and killed himself afterwards."

She looked at them and exclaimed, "Our Blessed Lady!" Still looking down at the photographs, she crossed herself. "Have mercy upon her soul."

Michael frowned. "What about the father's?"

Elisabeth shook her head. "Suicide is a sin against God." She silenced him with a gesture of her hand before he could protest and added, "I know you are not very religious."

He shrugged. "I find the doctrine a bit contradictory. The supposedly kind God denies life eternal because he can't forgive weaknesses - and I count suicide among those."

"Well, that's the case with religion. What about the boy? Is he religious?"

Michael hesitated. "Well...I don't know. Cossacks were said to be very orthodox to be exact. They usually baptized their children shortly after birth. I guess it depends on whether he was born in the Soviet Union or not; religion is more or less prohibited by communism."

She considered this. "Then the boy might already have participated innumerable times in church service. If that is the case, then it'll take some time to accustom him to the Anglican belief."

Michael opened his mouth but decided against speaking his mind.

"Can I keep these?" Elisabeth gestured to the pictures. He nodded, and she put them into her desk. Then she looked at him again with her piercing, eagle-like gaze. "What else do we know?"

He sighed. "Neither his name nor the exact age. And, well..."

"Yes?"

"We're not certain if he knows or acknowledges that his parents are dead. I fear he might believe the soldiers dragged him away from them or something like that."

"I see. It won't be easy then but you already mentioned to expect difficulties." She drummed slightly on the table. "All right. Have him brought here on Monday morning, 9 o'clock. And...he already knows you a little bit. It would be very much appreciated if you could help us win his trust."

Michael nodded. "I'm still in London the next two weeks. I'll visit as often as I can but so far I don't have his trust either."

* * *

The Peggetz: In 1945 it was the location of the Cossack refugee camp near Lienz. Today it is a suburb of Lienz. A Cossack Graveyard is located there. 


	8. Chapter 8

Michael sighed in frustration. He sat on the sole chair in the tiny room. The window was set high up into the wall, too high to reach for a small child. The room itself contained nothing much except for a bed. And the child occupying this room was currently under it.

Both Elisabeth and he had been aware that dealing with the boy would not be easy. But when Elisabeth had called him two days after the boy had been placed into her care, he had still clung to the naive hope that one of the most difficult things she was faced with was the language barrier.

In these two days that Michael had not been here, the child had tried to run away more than three times. And the staff quickly realised that they needed to remove anything it might use to hurt someone. One from the staff had learnt the hard way that approaching it might now be a good idea - the child had stabbed her with a nail file. So they had separated the boy from the other children and more or less locked him in this room, caring for him as well as they could. Michael understood that perfectly.

He wondered how the doctors from the Red Cross had put up with the child - Michael had not been there, he had had duties elsewhere. He guessed that they had put metal bars around his bed otherwise it would not have stayed until it was completely recovered. He had asked them a few questions but not gotten much answers. However, if he interpreted the abrasions on the boy's arms right, then someone had seen no other alternative than to bind him to a bed. For many people it was common procedure.

Michael shook his head. He knew that his own approach to child upbringing was considered progressive and plain stupid by other people. He believed that explaining was a better thing than hitting and he preferred gentleness to shouting. So far it had always proven right. Rough handling only made children react more violently than before. He was glad that Elisabeth was as progressive as he was.

Flat had always been proud of his ability to handle children. Now, after two weeks of coaxing and soothing, he felt ready to climb the walls. He was not sure what else he should try or do.

The Cossack child never talked. And it had been under its bed every day since it had been brought here, except for those moments when they needed to drag it out. The boy only came out in the night when he was alone in the room. Michael had watched him through the tiny window in the door. The boy either went to sleep or spent hours hugging himself and rocking back and forth during the night.

And as usual the child was under the bed right now. Michael did not have many options left. He was due to go on his next assignment in France two days from now. Sitting and talking would not be enough. Since he could not coax the child to come out, he would have to join it. He had tried everything else and the worst that could happen was that he was kicked or bitten.

He gave the idea a last thought and the space between the floor and the mattress a calculating gaze before he slowly lay down on his belly and crept forward, whispering comforting words in Russian as he did so.

The child squeezed against the wall, as much away from Michael as possible, and kept his eyes, which looked too large for the small face, firmly trained on him as he approached.

Even though the dim light under the bed made it hard to clearly see the features of the boy, the sadness and distress were all too evident. Michael cleared his throat to get rid of the lump which seemed to have formed there. He softly sang popular Russian lullabies. The forth one was known as the 'Cossack's lullaby' When he started with ' Sleep, my fine young baby, Lullabye, a-bye, quietly the clear moon looks down,' the child finally relaxed a bit.

So far, so good. When Michael had finished singing, he decided that now was the moment. He asked in Russian, "What's your name?"

Large, green eyes peered at him but no answer came.

Flat tipped his finger against his own chest. "Michael." Then he pointed at the boy. "Who are you?"

The boy's answer was hesitant and barely audible, "Aleksej."

Michael was relieved. No, he was happy. Finally the boy had reacted. "So you are Aleksej. That's a nice name. And your last name?" Again Michael pointed at himself to make it easier for the child to understand. "Michael Flat."

The boy swallowed and looked away.

"Michael Flat. And you are Aleksej...?"

Aleksej stared at him and blinked several times to keep the tears from falling before he answered.

"Hey." Flat gave him a reassuring smile. "Can you repeat that for me?"

Because the reply was only slightly louder, Michael still had to strain his ears to understand him. He frowned; surely he had misunderstood the answer. Michael asked again and pressed his lips together when the child refused to reply anymore. Sighing, Michael Flat crawled out from under the bed.

"What did he say about his surname?" Unnoticed, Elisabeth had entered the room.

Michael replied, "He said the name is dead."

Elisabeth shook her head and called a nurse to look after the child while she and Michael left the room to talk elsewhere.

"We'll call him Alec," Elisabeth said, "It's close enough to his real name. And would you believe me that I'm good at choosing surnames by now? That is, if no one adopts him of course. Too bad you can't adopt a child – you would make a wonderful father, Michael..."

"Well, I'm not married." Michael glanced one last time over his shoulder before he followed Elisabeth, wondering what would become of the child.

It should take a year until the boy spoke again, and when he did, his language was no longer Russian.

-fin-

* * *

A/N 

This story has finally come to an end and I hope it was a satisfying read. Many thanks to Captain Mac for beta-ing and to alle the readers who enjoyed the story: Alleymap, Daughter of Olorin, Adri Skywalker, GreenCat3, Brightbear, Phoenix Master and of course those I do not know about.

Oh, and Alleymap, I looked up the source for Alec's surname again. You were right, of course. Trevelyan is Cornish ;)

Conserning Alecs first name:

Aleksei or Aleksej means "to defend." it can be nicknamed Alyosha, Lyosha.

I had considered using Aleksandr (nicknames: Sasha and Shurik) but somehow I thought that they would have probably kept the long form, naming him Alexander Trevelyan.

There are of course other possibilities concerning the question of how Alec came to Great Britain. He might even have been born there, depending on when his father committed suicide.

Resources:

I have tried to read books/texts from very different viewpoints because every source is in a way biased,

General reference to cossacks:

Nicholas V. Feodoroff: History of the Cossacks, Commack, NY: Nova Science, 1999

The Massacre of Cossacks at Lienz:

Samuel J. Newland: Cossacks in the German Army 1941-1945

Cossack Lullaby: There are so many different versions; I don't know where I looked up the one I cited the first line from. But a nice translation can be found here

Longworth, Philip: The Cossacks, Holt Rinehart and Winston, NY, 1970

Surname

Origin of the Surname Trevelyan  
(Origin Cornish British) Trevellyan, the town of the mill. Welsh, Tremelin, or Trevelin.


End file.
